The fair Isabel of Cotehele a Cornish romance, in six cantos. By the author of Local attachment, and translator of Theocritus [i.e. Richard Polwhele] |
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INTRODUCTORY ADDRESS. TO WALTER SCOTT, Esq.
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 | The fair Isabel of Cotehele |  |
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INTRODUCTORY ADDRESS. TO WALTER SCOTT, Esq.
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Ah, smile not, whilst the feeble fire
Mounts from my inharmonious lyre,
Whilst every note, from rustic strings,
In weak vibration trembling rings!
Yet to thine ear, ingenuous friend!
Would every trembling note ascend.
Mounts from my inharmonious lyre,
Whilst every note, from rustic strings,
In weak vibration trembling rings!
Yet to thine ear, ingenuous friend!
Would every trembling note ascend.
4
From Cornwall's wreck-devoted shores,
Her barren hills, and russet moores,
Where languid verdure tints the vales;
And sigh thro' chasms the summer-gales;
And the eye wanders o'er a scene
By lawn nor grove nor dingle green,
Till in some little meadow-close
With vagrance tir'd it seeks repose;
Alas! amid this murky gloom
Can fancy spread the ethereal plume?
O! shall her vainly-venturous aim
Pursue thy wings of living flame
That rise, where vast floods scoop their way,
And lakes thro' forests glimmer gray;
And cataracts, by huge oaks o'erbrow'd,
Foam to the threatening thunder-cloud,
Ere yet its vollied vengeance break
On rocky ridge or towering peak,
And all appears the poet's dream,
“Land of the mountain and the stream?”
Her barren hills, and russet moores,
Where languid verdure tints the vales;
And sigh thro' chasms the summer-gales;
And the eye wanders o'er a scene
By lawn nor grove nor dingle green,
Till in some little meadow-close
With vagrance tir'd it seeks repose;
Alas! amid this murky gloom
Can fancy spread the ethereal plume?
O! shall her vainly-venturous aim
Pursue thy wings of living flame
That rise, where vast floods scoop their way,
And lakes thro' forests glimmer gray;
And cataracts, by huge oaks o'erbrow'd,
Foam to the threatening thunder-cloud,
Ere yet its vollied vengeance break
On rocky ridge or towering peak,
And all appears the poet's dream,
“Land of the mountain and the stream?”
5
And lo! thy glens, thy woods, thy springs,
Gleam but to saints and warriour-kings!
I hear them rustle thro' the shade—
Heroes, that people every glade,
And brighten thro' the faery haze
From Ossian's time to border-days,
While ruin'd roofs and castled dells
Still echo back the feast of shells;
And, midst their clanmen rush to fight
Proud spirits who erst, of stalworth might,
Ravish'd the moonlight foray meed
On Teviot's banks, or Tyne or Tweed.
Gleam but to saints and warriour-kings!
I hear them rustle thro' the shade—
Heroes, that people every glade,
And brighten thro' the faery haze
From Ossian's time to border-days,
While ruin'd roofs and castled dells
Still echo back the feast of shells;
And, midst their clanmen rush to fight
Proud spirits who erst, of stalworth might,
Ravish'd the moonlight foray meed
On Teviot's banks, or Tyne or Tweed.
Her guerdon yet hath Cornwall won
In many a bold heroic son;
From those who wore the hoary crown,
The car-borne chiefs of old renown,
To these who strew'd with rebel dead
The blazon'd field where Granville bled.
In many a bold heroic son;
From those who wore the hoary crown,
The car-borne chiefs of old renown,
To these who strew'd with rebel dead
The blazon'd field where Granville bled.
6
And shall we not retrace the line
In long long splendours from Locrine,
Whilst in Dunstanville blend the fires
Transmitted from his banner'd sires,
With all that whilom wont to glow
In Arundel and Caerminow;
While high Boscawen, more rich and deep
Thy greenwoods swell their breezy sweep,
And, flankt with more than former pride,
New turrets shadow Vala's tide;
Kindling, while Valetort reveres
The vision of departed years,
Still seems to grasp the patriot steel,
And worships in his own Cotehele,
As o'er the shrine of glory bent,
Its patriarchal monument!
In long long splendours from Locrine,
Whilst in Dunstanville blend the fires
Transmitted from his banner'd sires,
With all that whilom wont to glow
In Arundel and Caerminow;
While high Boscawen, more rich and deep
Thy greenwoods swell their breezy sweep,
And, flankt with more than former pride,
New turrets shadow Vala's tide;
Kindling, while Valetort reveres
The vision of departed years,
Still seems to grasp the patriot steel,
And worships in his own Cotehele,
As o'er the shrine of glory bent,
Its patriarchal monument!
'Twas at the time when wealth and birth
Flung lustre on their simple worth,
My sires, allied to Valetort,
Would to Cotehele's lov'd bowers resort;
As all the rites of genial cheer
Bless'd, in high glee, the closing year.
Flung lustre on their simple worth,
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Would to Cotehele's lov'd bowers resort;
As all the rites of genial cheer
Bless'd, in high glee, the closing year.
And well, I ween, one festive bard
Paid to those rites his fond regard;
Still bidding jokes and gibes avail,
To season many a Christmas tale!
Paid to those rites his fond regard;
Still bidding jokes and gibes avail,
To season many a Christmas tale!
For me, it Valetort but deign
To listen to the eventful strain,
Perhaps, in no degenerate lays
May flow my tale of other days!
And with no ineffectual aim,
To give to praise an ancient name,
Contrasting honest fair desert
With mean malignity and art,
My minstrel-muse shall marvels tell,
Such as beseem the Christmas well;
Such as may bid the guests draw near
With cordial laughter mingling fear,
O'er the gay groupe where blazes flash
From hissing hollies, flying ash,
And in each countenance pourtray
The passions, rapid as they play,
To every quick transition true,
What never Rombrandt's pencil drew.
To listen to the eventful strain,
Perhaps, in no degenerate lays
May flow my tale of other days!
And with no ineffectual aim,
To give to praise an ancient name,
Contrasting honest fair desert
With mean malignity and art,
My minstrel-muse shall marvels tell,
Such as beseem the Christmas well;
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With cordial laughter mingling fear,
O'er the gay groupe where blazes flash
From hissing hollies, flying ash,
And in each countenance pourtray
The passions, rapid as they play,
To every quick transition true,
What never Rombrandt's pencil drew.
| The fair Isabel of Cotehele | |